Forgettable Names
by CriesofCapricorn
Summary: A different take on how Mason learns of George’s lost virginity. And in an effort to console her, he tells her about his messed up first time. MasonGeorge friendship.


**Summary:** A different take on how Mason learns of George's lost virginity. And in an effort to console her, he tells her about his messed up first time. MasonGeorge friendship.

**Author's Note:** There's some un-canon material (this was written before I saw the _Death Defying_), but it's nothing too big. Lots of swearing, but it's _Dead Like Me_, so what do you expect. This piece is un-betaed (forgive me for any errors), but it shouldn't be impossible to read. Please feel free to review, whether you compliment or constructively criticize my story. Thanks! Enjoy!

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"Where the hell is everyone?" I ask Mason across me, sliding into the booth, but not before I bump my left hip on the table's edge. "Ow…" I moan, pressing my hand to my side.

"Late," he shrugs. "And yourself – how are you?"

"Myself, what? If they're late, I'm early. Right?"

He blinks, "Well, yeah, but … not what I meant. My God, you are so bloody pissed right now."

"Yeah, I'm angry! So what? Don't I have right to be angry when I want?" I scream, grouchily.

"No, again, I meant you're fucking drunk, for Christ's sake," Mason's talking to me as if I'm a child ... which is a first. 'Cause usually it's the other way around.

"Am not!"

"Please!" he says, patronizingly, "A little credit here. I can tell when someone's drunk. Been there enough myself, y'know."

"Go away." I groan, putting my hands up to my head. "You talk too much."

"Was your first time, wasn't it?" he says, smiling, poking my shoulder.

"No! No, it was so not my first time having sex!"

And not a second later, I realized he meant my first time getting drunk, not laid. Fuck, where's Superman to turn back time when you need him.

"Uh, noooo." He stares at me in utter disbelief. "I meant your first time getting pissed. Wait, you lost your virginity? Look at you, all grown up, now. First sex, now booze. Following in big brother's footsteps, are we?" He flashes this huge conceited smirk that gave me the biggest urge to slap it right off his face.

"Shut up, Mason. Not a good day. Really, really, horrible, actually." I slam my forehead against the table. The coolness of the surface feels great against skin, which I am fairly certain is on fire, because it is too fucking hot inside me, here.

"So what's the problem, then?"

"Nothing," I respond, immediately, hoping he'll get off my back.

"What is it, Georgie?" he asks again.

"I said 'nothing!'"

"You _said_ it – didn't mean it."

I wasn't even looking up, but I could tell he was staring right at the top of head, waiting for the truth. I breathe in heavily, so I could try to hide the tears already forming. "He hasn't called." I pick up my head, "He said he would and he hasn't. And he won't, will he?"

He snickers, "No, probably not, Georgie-girl."

"Bastard. God, I hate him," I shout. Then, though, I do the stupid thing. I contemplate, whatever the fuck that means. "But, you know the sick part – the sick part is I hate me more for doing what I did. I feel so damn stupid and foolish."

"Oh, you're not stupid. I know stupid – I _am_ stupid."

"Well, yeah, compared to you, I'm Einstein, but…" I trail off, not knowing what to say.

"Ah," Mason says, "I get it. You feel cheated. You feel you should've gotten the fairy-tale ending, but all you got is beer to drown your sorrows in. Georgie," he says, as if he's a little disappointed in me, "I'd have bloody expected you, of all people, to know that those fairy-tales don't exist."

"Of course I know! I'm a goddamn cynic for a reason! I didn't want a fairy-tale ending, I just wanted …" I sigh. And I hate it – it makes me look so pathetic. "I don't know, something more."

Mason's staring right at me, and for a change, _without_ blood-shot eyes. They're sympathetic instead, which actually makes me feel worse, "Don't worry. You'll get over it. After a while, you won't even remember his name. I promise." He reaches over, and pats my hand for a second, before putting it back on his lap.

"Do you remember the name of your first?" I ask, solemnly.

"Oh, God no."

"You are so just saying that, you asshole!"

"No, I'm not!" He chuckles. "Cross my heart," he says and gestures doing it. "Want to know about my first time? Interesting tale, actually, it –" He stops, and looks at me as if he wants my approval to continue. "Well, do you actually want to hear it?"

I shrug. "Yeah, sure, got some time to kill."

"Oh, good, so happy I could fit around your busy schedule," he says, sarcastically, but starts his story. "It was actually on the day I was going to die. Was at a party some of my druggie friends were throwin' and this mate of mine introduced me to this girl. Like I said, I don't remember her name, but I remember hating it. It was so … manly and brutish." His smile dissipated, as he looks at the door behind me, recalling the details of his story. "I remember wishing it was something pretty. Like Emily or Elena. Or something nice like the name of a color – Celeste, maybe Scarlet, after the Gone With the Wind bird, y'know. Maybe even a flower – Rose, Lily…"

Daisy, I think. I mean, it's so fucking obvious he wants to say it, but he won't. I know he won't. He only continues staring at the backdoor, his eyes only moving when he's forced to blink for a second.

"But, no, I got the girl with the brutish name. I didn't care much, though, at the time. She had a lovely face, nice flowing dirty-blondish hair, an even better body, which was one of my main concerns, and I was a however-year-old virgin. Plus, I was already drunk, so, you know, senses were blurred a bit."

Placing and resting his left elbow on the ledge behind him, Mason continues his story, making gestures with his only visible, (the left, obviously) hand. "About half-an-hour later we were talking. Nothing big, just general chit-chat about our favorite music artists and rubbish like that. Twenty minutes later, our friends gave us some illegals. And then only ten minutes later, we headed to my friend's bedroom, unable to take our hands off each other over the way. Don't know why we went there, though. We didn't even use the bed. I think," he laughs, "I think we were convinced the UFOs were outside and they had this sort of lighting device which with they could see us. But, apparently, the light only went horizontal," he laughs again, louder, while making a swift horizontal line through the air, "and couldn't be adjusted to move in any other direction. Funny, we thought the aliens had the technology to travel throughout _outer space _but they lacked in lighting equipment. Hmm," he says this shortly, as if it were the most interesting thing he ever heard. "Well, anyway, obviously, we didn't want them to watch us, so we shagged on the floor, hiding behind the bed's blankets.

"Huh. You know, Georgie, I don't even remember if it was any good, I just remember _that_ bit. The weird bit. Well, after that, we left the room. The minute we got out the door, my mates handed us some more pot. We took it, 'course. I went left, she went right … lost track of the other. Fifteen minutes later, we bumped into each other in the living room. And she _introduced_ herself … to me … again. She had no bloody recollection that we screwed, much less even _met_. I played along – was in the mood for games that night. I told her my real name and everything, but it didn't ring a bell in her bird-brain mind."

At this point, Mason exhales, loudly, and holds up his head with the arm that was resting on the ledge. I don't know how to describe it, but it was sort of like he was getting tired of the story himself. Like he knows how it ends, and doesn't see a point in re-telling a story with a horrible ending. I don't know why he keeps going if he hates it so much. A part of me thinks it's because of me – maybe he wants to make me feel better. Maybe it's for him. So he'll _remember_ something – anything – that he's done, even if it is shitty. He keeps going, though.

"So we talked again. This time about our favorite colors, radio shows, and the Vietnam War. I was scared shitless, thinking Britain was going to help America and join the war, some sort of payback for their helping us during the Second World War. I was no fighter – still not – and I knew if they drafted me into the army, I'd be comin' home in a body bag." He chuckles, "So afraid of dyin' in a war that didn't even concern me, and I died sooner than that in a whole soddin' less honorable way. Funny how that works. Anyway, the girl was in the middle of talking about yellow, her favorite color, and I thought I should tell her what had gone on with us not even an hour ago. But, bloody hell, you can't believe how much she had to say about yellow, she didn't take one fucking breath. I couldn't even get into the conversation, even if I wanted to.

"Hours later, she didn't remember, and I didn't bring it up. Then, me and her, and couple of others locked ourselves in the bathroom. Passed 'round some more illegals. Found a drill – all shiny lookin' and pretty. 'Sides, it made a really _cool_ 'vroooom' sound. Yeah, we all loved that bit of it. And, then, well, y'know," Mason smiles, takes his right index and middle fingers and presses them into his temple, his head dropping to his left side, with his tongue sticking out, and his eyes rolled back. I didn't want to laugh, I really didn't. I was in a pissy mood, in the middle of depressing as hell story, and the drinks I had earlier still made my skin feel hot. But I couldn't help it – it let out. I laughed; the first in, for what seemed like, a really long time.

"Henry – not my reaper, obviously, but the guy that introduced me to reapin' – was real nice. He let me stick around to watch the aftermath, y'know. So, these mates of mine, they jump back in horror, because, well, let's face it, brains sprawled out all over the loo's floor, and the blood that was spewed even got in the sink … all that, not a pretty sight. So they kick everyone else out, crack open some windows, hide the drugs, and call the cops. Told them that I was just extremely ultra-drunk and that's why I did what I did. And the girl …the fucking girl was still in the house. She looked deader than me. There was this petrified look on her face, like she was going to vomit. Everyone else just told her to calm down and act normal. She couldn't even handle that much. So, she grabbed her purse, emptied the illegals from it – so she wouldn't get caught for possession in case she ran into the cops – and took off. Bitch couldn't even wait for them to zip up my bloody body in a plastic bag. Forgot about everything."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Mason!" I shout.

"What?" he shakes, somehow startled, and he even hits his funny bone on the ledge. "Fucking 'ell," he mutters, and rubs his bruise.

I stare at him dumbly. "Is there a point to this story besides making me want to cry?"

"I don't bloody know! Thought it'd help. Y'know, my first time was bollocksed in every way, too. I mean, what I just told you was fucking pathetic and you can't tell me otherwise. It didn't make you feel any _better_ about your situation?"

I give him a look, definitely hinting that I'm making my response to his idiotic question a clear 'no.'

"The point is, George," he slouches back into his usual position, and adds emphasis by pointing his index finger at me, "that it's not like the movies. Lots of times there are no 'I love yous' or, or, God, I don't even know what else, haven't been in the movies in quite some time. But, I mean, you fuck them, and long after the deed is done, they find a way to fuck you right back. Your case, he doesn't call. But, y'know what, it doesn't make a difference. It's their loss, right. You can do … a zillion times better than that ponce, whoever he is."

"A zillion's not a number."

"What?"

"It's not a real number, so it doesn't make sense."

He smiles. "You think too much."

"Or not enough," I murmur beneath my breath, still not feeling better about the whole Trip thing.

"Listen, Georgie-girl, I _know_ I'm last person you want to hear this from. But in the end, all there is is brutish names – _forgettable_ names. You'll forget about him. You _will_, all right. You're going to be here for a long, long time. You're going to have plenty of chances to make it up – do it all right, yeah."

I frown, "Trip is a stupid name," but I end with a cruel grin of sorts.

He scoffs, "It's not even a name – it's a bloody noun!"

"Names are nouns, Mason. They're proper nouns."

"Oh, for God's sake, Georgia… it's ten in the morning, you know damn well I don't have the capacity to put with all your grammatical bullshit." There's a pause between his angry, humorous statement and what he's about to say. "You'll forget, okay."

"'Love makes you forget time, and time makes you forget love,'" I quote.

"Yes, quite right," he points at me suddenly, then to the tip of his nose. "Spot on." He reaches across the table and pats my hand again, like before. Except this time he does it twice, and then gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Well." He slides out of the booth. "I've got to use the loo. Tell Rubey I was here or else he'll be on my fucking case for being late again."

"Sure."

So that was a really weird experience. But, hey, I'm surprised as anyone to find out it worked. I, strangely enough, feel better. I don't know. Maybe it was the way Mason kept looking at the door as if he was reading verbatim from some invisible book that was pasted on it. Maybe it was the way he didn't stop for anything. Maybe it was the way his eyes kind of got a little shiny and misty toward the end. Or, hell, maybe it was just because his misery gives me kicks, and I'm a cruel, sadistic bitch. Though, I hope it's not the latter, for several reasons.

In any case, it's nice to know I'm not the only one who got fucked over like that. I hope I find that true love one day. I hope he finds his, too. He's a good guy – the ultimate fuck-up – but, he deserves it … nevertheless.


End file.
